


The Day After the Funeral

by Diminua



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 18:40:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1276762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diminua/pseuds/Diminua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day after they bury Mary and the baby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Day After the Funeral

Fandom: Sherlock  
Disclaimer: Conan Doyle, Moffat, Mark Gatiss  
Summary: The day after they bury Mary and the baby.  
Spoilers for Series 3

 

  
Strangely it’s not until the day after, when the flowers are heaped over the turned earth, cards removed and plastic sheaths torn open to the faint pearlescent light of early autumn, that John thinks to ask Sherlock if he knew.

‘No.’ Sherlock bends to adjust a wreath of giant daisies – less morbid somehow than lilies – which have slipped to an awkward angle. The roses are already wilting. Beautiful things, but weaker than their fleshy stems and curved thorns would lead one to think. ‘I only knew there was something else I was missing. Something she didn’t want anyone to see.’

‘Nothing new there then.’ John’s laugh is short and mirthless. Sherlock’s answering grin a travesty. ‘Why didn’t I see it? I’m a doctor for god’s sake.’

‘She must have been very careful to make sure you wouldn’t.’ Sherlock abhors telling people what they already know, but he makes an exception for this particular occasion. This particular person. ‘You would have encouraged her to terminate the pregnancy. Clearly she was determined not to do that.’

‘And now they’re both..’ John is too occupied with wiping away the tears to complete the sentence.

‘I can only assume she thought it worth the risk.’

‘And why are you still on her _fucking side_.’ John explodes, but only briefly. Reins it in, breathes with slow, controlled, emphasis. ‘Sorry. I’m sorry. That.. I didn’t mean that. I’m glad you were friends.’

‘Mycroft said much the same thing, actually, shortly after my aborted trip to Eastern Europe. He said I over-identified with her.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said that was hardly surprising given that an ungrateful government had been happy to utilize her as an attack dog then expected her to be able to turn off that behaviour like a tap when it was no longer convenient.’ The acid in Sherlock’s voice simmers down to something thoughtful. Internal. ‘It’s not good for a person, killing. It makes that an option. In some ways the easiest option. Certainly the quickest.’

John nods, remembering his shock at the time. Guilt, as well, because it shouldn't have taken the shooting of Magnussen for him to realise Sherlock was no longer himself. Wouldn't have if he hadn’t shut Sherlock down the one time he’d tried to explain where he’d been and why he’d been in hiding. It had been too raw, he hadn’t been ready to discuss it. Then later he’d been.. occupied.

Bloody useless, actually.

‘I thought about finding out her real name you know. Not the surname, but the first name, for the headstone. But then I thought, if it was Anna or Angela, that would mean putting Angela Watson, and Angela Watson never existed, and if I put her full original name, the one she wanted to get away from, that seemed wrong too. Almost as if I wasn’t respecting her wishes..’

‘Best to leave well alone I think. She was happy being Mary Watson.’ Sherlock observes. ‘Certainly very determined to continue at it.’

John manages a brief, watery smile before his face crumples again.

‘Christ I can’t stop.’

‘You’re grieving, it’s perfectly natural.’

‘You’re grieving too.’

‘Yes. Interesting that. I feel as if rather a lot of the fun had been sucked out of life. Is that normal?’

‘Close enough. It could pass for normal.’

‘It seems rather egocentric. As a response to bereavement I mean.’

‘Well I’m bloody furious with her.’

‘You were angry with me as well.’ Clearly Sherlock, however bereaved, is right in thinking himself egocentric.

‘Not as angry as Mrs Hudson was.’ John pulls himself together visibly. Again. ‘There’s not going to be a miracle this time, is there?’ He asked.

It’s a ridiculous question. He had been the one with Mary when she went into labour, who had called the ambulance and spent three hours sitting in A&E while she fought for her life, who’d seen her after, so pale and cold, the baby girl swaddled and laid in his arms so that he could say goodbye to both. There was no possibility of mistake.

‘No. no more miracles.’ Sherlock stepped back. He had felt stifled for long enough. ‘Do you want to come back to the flat? Mrs Hudson will be cross if I don’t ask you and I believe there are biscuits.’ Then, as John didn’t immediately respond. ‘Custard creams mostly, and the occasional disintegrating hobnob.’

John heaved a sigh and finally turned from the grave. He had supposed he would want a moment alone, something he needed to say that was private, but he had found nothing. Perhaps it would come later.

Perhaps later, as well, he would be able to think of the baby. There was just a gap at the moment, as though she had never been. He’d never really been able to picture her before birth.

Mary had been excited enough for two though. So excited, and all the time, aware she had damage to her heart. Focused on the baby, on being normal, to the exclusion of all else. Almost as if she thought changing her name and her friends and her life would cancel out the wounds she’d acquired.

‘Dangerous to try to be normal when you’re not.’ Sherlock murmured, clearly thinking along the same lines. ‘Almost as dangerous as thinking yourself extraordinary when you’re crashingly normal.’

‘Everything’s dangerous.’ John said as he settled in the cab. ‘Mycroft said that as well. Most people can’t see it, the battlefield. Doesn’t mean it’s not there. Maybe that’s what attracted me to her, the fact she could see it too.’

‘That sounds horribly like Mycroft. Ominous and pompous. What else did he say?’

‘He said Welcome back, Doctor Watson.’


End file.
